Too much of life is spent waiting for now
I stare at code for most hours in my day now. I no longer write my fictions, poems, or prose in natural languages. Logic and creativity watch me hand in hand like doting parents.
I’ve been piling as much as possible onto my plate lately; aside from my normal 9 hours of work, I have a side project I’m still completing with a new one yet to get off the ground. On top of that I have an application I am setting myself to build in a framework I have yet to learn - and a different blog meant to document my learning that is in dire need of updating, fixing, and content publishing.
I need a clone.
It’s another warm day in Sydney, the headache left from last night is almost gone. I’ve spent the day shirtless, locked in my headphones and working.
I’d much rather sleep.
My how long it has been and while it’s incredibly, highly, stupendously, unlikely anyone should read this - that’s fine with me. These spaces return to a simpler idea, a much more relaxed point, the counter returns to zero as it always does.
This is my ‘hello world’ for now. Maybe I’ll somehow find time to jot down ideas and thoughts here, maybe one day I’ll find my voice again.
Maybe the Devil and I are close enough, now, that my prolonged absence of him - and inevitable return - means we pick up again as if not an hour had passed.
Maybe I finally understand what it means to heal. The reins were mine all along, and while the horses remain wild I am at last capable of controlling them.
don’t mind this space
though im sure whatever fraction of your mind it could have occupied is well covered by something else - seeing how sporadic anything is updated or written.
in all likelihood this space will close soon. maybe it will migrate to a new digital canvas. maybe it will cease to exist entirely. but to leave it as is - like a body frozen midway along it’s journey to the peak - is an injustice in and of itself.
There is still much work to be done before any changes occur, but I figured I’d give a heads up to any few who might still see this and - however unlikely it may be - care.
theforeshadow asked: a vague notion, decrepit and decayed. a shadow of a memory abandoned for lack of use. an infinite ambition, stopping at nothing to reignite the faint spark into a brilliant blazing inferno of memories thought long lost. organization now pays off, as my ethereal collection of thoughts committed to abstract paper serves its purpose. "write," they said. "write a thousand words a day, even if they mean nothing at all." a sincere and hopeful outreach to the author of words I never quite forgot. :)
Hm. I feel a ‘thank you’ would suffice - about as much as a pat on the back or a smile and nod of acknowledgement.
Thank you for the echoed reminder of something and someone I miss dearly.
i swam out as far as my body could carry me.
and turning onto my back i let the tide carry me further
until the expanse spread out and consumed me.
on the third night, staring up at the trillion, trillion stars
i heard a distant rumbling, growing near.
before long i reached it’s source,
my sense of balance shot up from my stomach and into my throat
as i went tumbling down and out-
out from the horizon,
out from the familiar,
out, where down and up was an idea and not an absolute.
out, where thought was not confined to random electrical impulses.
the stars would brighten and dim as thoughts made themselves known.
consciousness was the blackness of the forever before me-
consciousness is the blackness of the forever before me.
a familiar feeling of exposure,
a school boy revealing his deep-hidden feelings
and receiving only laughter.
the cool morning air and warm afternoons of
tangled hair pasted to a forehead with sweat.
but your heart doesn’t beat like it does when they walk past,
never even noticing you were there
when they’re all you see.
you’re sure you’re in love,
because you repeat it to yourself like a daily prayer.
and this song is for them,
your sacrifice to the thought of them.
fucking grow up..
the sensed gap: digital words having no weight, no sense of flesh.
the problem: the transubstantiation of bits of information, made whole by the user.